I know not what hath happened, just that it was not good. My credibility was destroyed, and what little faith anyone had in me was gone. It shouldn't matter to me, but it does. What hurt the most was that I had trusted her. It was all ruined. The shame shadowed me at the show, the Conference, when a kindly Ulsterman believed her instead of me. Alas, I am who? Just another man. Yet, no. She is more of a man than I am. Men don't bawl.
If anything I compare myself to a collie, a sheep-dog: frail, clever (for a dog, at least), faithful, in want of attention. Cats all scatter when I strut along my strip. I am smelly, and relatively unkempt. But I am not a sheep-dog, much as I wish to be right now. It would make things a lot simpler: a dogs life.
A new day dawns, and I will turn the page. A clean leaf where I press my oil-pastel to the paper. Making a sketch of one of Dover's charcoals. I should do something original, but cannot summon imagination. Instead, I paint a picture with words.
This sketch of a story is my only release from the feelings that hath plagued mine life for what seems like an age. Where did it all go wrong? Who cares!? I do.
This little patch of paradise, a topical retreat into myself. Egoistic, self-centred, are blogs. In the world where so much mud-slinging goes on this page gives birth to a new tale. One filled with a lone magpie. Seen each day this past week. An omen of nothing, no-one. Or maybe not. I dids't see one, only to spy another, and another. Who knows what the future holds? Not I.
As everything came to a head last week, the night before I was to set off for the Conference, something strange happened. I had paid her tribute by way of a compliment, southern-fried chicken style. As I sat meditating in mellow inebriation, her spirit came to caress in gratitude. It was an intense experience. My spirit can soar at will, but this night it needed not go anywhere, for she arrived by my side. I hath not spoken of it to another soul, until now.
Most people think I'm nuts, most of all her. The confounded persona is proof enough of a sensitive mind, yet t'was the tipping of the scales, by way of manipulation, playing silly-buggers, that were to tear apart numerous relations, and sever my link to the University writers. We still remain amicable, if only just (in between threats).
The wound festers, aggravated by the salty rubbing-in that is the trial. I hath not a strong case, and will approach this as would a cricketer. As I am on the brink of being bowled out, I will try my best to knock it for six.
In the worst case scenario I will suffer expulsion. Even in the misty haze that is this clouded web of deceit, I sleep soundly.
No comments:
Post a Comment